Open Door
by DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: There's a monster in the bunker. Dean doesn't know how to kill it; doesn't know it's infectious. Getting better is a work in progress for both of them. Themes include depression and guilt, with a touch of Christmas fluff and recovery.


AN: Canon divergent from S9e9. Kevin is dead, Gadreel is out of Sam, and Cas is still human.

WARNINGS: Self-harm.

* * *

 _"It's a dark road, and a dark way that leads to my house_

 _And the word says, you're never gonna find me there, oh no_

 _I've got an open door_

 _It didn't get there by itself_

 _It didn't get there by itself"_

 _-_ Dark Road, Annie Lennox

* * *

Dean's been hunting monsters his entire life. Monsters were easy, simple. They followed schemas, rarely broke out of their protocols. Easy to identify, easier to kill, as long as you knew what you doing.

At least they usually were.

Vampires: decapitation.

Ghosts: Salt and burn the bones.

Wendigos: Burn the fucker and get the fuck out.

But this…

Dean's never dealt with this kind of monster before, the one that lurks behind the corners, that sits quietly at the dinner table right beside him fork scrapping against the plate, that one that patters around the bunker at four in the morning in socked feet.

Dean understands those other, violent monsters. Violence was easy and eager and existed for its own sake. In the end, all those monsters were ultimately trying to do was survive. Dean couldn't begrudge them that. He couldn't let them do that, not when their survival came at the cost of other innocent lives. But he couldn't begrudge them. He understood wanting to survive for survival's sake. It was the purity of Purgatory.

Dean doesn't understand this monster. Dean doesn't know how to kill this monster. He doesn't know what this monster _wants._

He hears it now, feet dragging across the hallway, towards the kitchen. Dean knows this routine. The coffee machine will begin to whirl any moment now. In three hours, Dean will leave his bedroom and head towards the kitchen where the monster will be sitting, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. Dean will ask how long it's been up and the monster will reply

 _Not long. I just woke up._

and Dean won't question it, because it's too hard to deal with these things. He flips his pillow over and contemplates the degree of fuckery his life has come to that he wishes it was a wendigo he got stuck with instead of this thing that just floats about.

* * *

Dean dreams of a time that seems farther away than it actually was. Castiel is trapped in a ring of holy fire Dean set and lit and there's so many emotions in his eyes, but _hurt_ is the strongest and rises to the surface. Castiel looks like he might actually cry.

Castiel asks for help.

Dean tells him _no._

* * *

Sam's keeping lookout while Dean switches the licenses plate from a banged up civic to the sedan and once he's finished they both get to work on moving their items from the trunk.

Dean's not paying attention, just throwing stuff as fast as he can before some soccer mom comes out of the market and sees the two men from the FBI's Most Wanted jacking her car. But his hand catches on something soft and stained, not cold and metallic like the weapons, and when he pulls out the coat, still tattered and stained, he suppresses a small noise that's born in the back of his throat, and he stops.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam snaps, slamming the trunk lid of the civic down, but then he sees Dean and his eyes soften.

Dean doesn't know why he kept the stupid coat. It's just a stupid, ugly, stained coat, and it's just been rotting underneath all their weapons, only seeing the light of day for ten seconds at a time when they have to switch cars. He forgets it's there most of the time. Because it's just a stupid, fuck ugly coat—a cancer, really-stained with leviathan gunk, and it's really ugly, he should burn it because of just that alone, _there is no reason to keep it—_

He tosses it into the sedan anyway.

* * *

Dean breathes and waits. Today, it's seven thirty when he forces himself out of bed and makes the walk to the kitchen. Castiel is sitting at the table, like Dean knew he would, a cup of coffee in front of him, just like there always is, and a book in his lap, which is a relatively new addition to this habit, one Dean's not sure what of it to think. He hopes it's appropriate literature this week. Last week, he caught Cas with a copy of _The Bell Jar_ and he resisted having a talk with Sam about monitoring Cas's library choices. He didn't want to bring Sam into this. If he did, Sam would want to _talk_ and that would only make things worse, and Dean knew how to kill monsters and fix cars and avoid the authorities and flirt his way into scoring free drinks and a night with gorgeous women, but he had no clue how to just talk, and even worse, listen.

"Morning," he says, walking over to the coffee maker.

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel says.

Dean takes a small sip of coffee and resists the urge to spit it out. Could instant coffee expire? It's suddenly bitter, rancid, and it taste like blood when it hits the back of his throat.

"Want breakfast?"

"That would be nice, thank you," Castiel says and he turns the page on his book, but he still hasn't looked at Dean yet.

Dean swallows down another sip. "Right." He wishes Sam were up already. This was always more bearable when Sam was here.

He starts cracking eggs and frying bacon, lost in his mind, because this he can do. He can't kill the monster, but he can cook food for his family, take care of them because lord knows they don't know how to do it themselves.

He doesn't know when, but sometime Castiel migrates from the table to Dean's elbow and he watches.

Dean tries to make conversation. God, he's trying. "The key is to add is a splash of milk," he says, beating the eggs. "It breaks the yolk up a bit, makes sure they're not so dense."

When Castiel is this close, Dean can't ignore him; the way his sleep shirt hangs off his shoulders and collar bone, only barely covering up the still raised and puckered scars Dean knows are there. He thinks of cold hospitals and the acidic stench of bleach. He thinks of doctors speaking to him, saying things like "too many stitches" and "infection". He knows he's staring when Castiel folds his arm across his chest and his face is turning red, up to the tips of his ears.

Dean clears his throat and looks away, but he still sees the scars in his mind, feels the heat of infection on his fingertips. He didn't wield the blades that pierced Castiel's flesh, but he still put those scars on him all the same.

Dean's put a lot of scars on Castiel.

 _Once, Dean asked an angel for help and the angel said yes._

 _Years later, the angel asked Dean for help._

 _And Dean said no._

He's glad eggs cook fast, and that bacon popping is so loud. It fills the silence. He's even more glad when Sam finally shows his ugly mug, bedhead and pajamas, as he walks slowly into the kitchen.

Sam smiles at Castiel first.

Castiel smiles back, but it's a lie. Dean knows, he watches. Castiel doesn't smile a lot anyway, but when he does there is something bright and holy and pure about it, like all the good in the whole world came together and concentrated itself inside Castiel's smiles. The smile doesn't reach Castiel's eyes, so it's a lie.

They sit at the table and they eat, but Dean can't keep his eyes off of Castiel, make sure he's really eating, because he was so thin when they finally found him and he's still thin after being home for weeks. Doctors throw around more words like "malnourished" and "anemia" and Dean wonders if they would still say them.

 _This is my family,_ Dean thinks. Sam and Cas. They're here. They're alive. A little worse for wear, but breathing, home, and honestly that's more than Dean's learned to expect. He's got a Midas touch, only instead of turning to gold, he just breaks everything.

He looks to a spot not ten feet away. Where Kevin died. Dean's throat tightened. Gadreel put his hands on Kevin, but ultimately, he was the one responsible. He let Gadreel into Sam, into the bunker; he let Gadreel run his life. It was supposed to save Sam, but in the end it did nothing but hurt Sam, Cas, and Kevin. Especially Kevin.

But he's trying to do better. He can't ever fix his mistake with Kevin, but he can fix this, because they're alive and here, and they're going to stay that way, Dean's going to make sure.

Sam's trying to engage Castiel in conversation, talk to him about his book. Castiel answers politely, but his responses are clipped and his eyes are kept to his plate.

It's Dean's job to protect his family, and there's a monster sitting right in front of him and he doesn't know how to kill it.

* * *

 _Be not forgetful to entertain strangers:_

 _For thereby some have entertained angels unawares._

Dean's heart is in his stomach and it drops even further down, to be digested by the acids into ash, when Gadreel speaks to him. Castiel is looking at him now, eager and expectant, eyes filled to the brim with light and humanity, even though hours ago he'd been tortured and killed.

"I always enjoy our talks," he says, mouth around a fifty cent microwaved burrito, savoring every bite like he's never seen food before in his life.

Dean's jaw shakes and his skin grows cold. He feels the last bit of his heart burn away and it spills out, like water behind a dam.

"You can't stay here."

Dean still dreams of the look that became Castiel's face. It tattooed itself into the forefront of Dean's memory.

* * *

They've been avoiding hunts since Cas came home. It's been an unspoken agreement between him and Sam. Cas isn't ready to hunt, physically or emotionally. And anyway, most of the hunts that've been coming up are angel or demon related and Dean would rather ignore both sides of the Earthly border and hope they just blow each other into extinction.

They spend their days cataloguing the Men of Letter's records and binge watching TV and movies. Dean's made it his personal mission to educate Cas into the world of pop culture, even though Sam says it's a decision he'll come to regret.

"He beats you at every other Jeopardy category," Sam says. "You'll have absolutely no hope if he starts getting the pop culture right."

Dean ignores Sam though, because he doesn't really care about losing at Jeopardy. Jeopardy is fun, and he enjoys the way Cas just nonchalantly rolls out the answers, even if he's only half paying attention. Alex Trebek will reveal an answer card of 5,778 and in under a second Cas will mutter, "What is the surface temperature of the sun". He's even better at history.

Most of Dean's friends and acquaintances come from hunting in one way or another. He spent time with them hunting, or talking about hunts, or researching hunts, or patching them up after a hunt gone wrong. He never really gets to do anything outside of hunting with them. He can now.

This is something safe.

He starts Cas off with the first season of _Dr. Sexy MD_ , because it's on Netflix. Cas pulls his legs up onto the couch and leans over the edge. He's wearing the fuzzy socks from the hospital, that have the no slip grip on the soles. Three episodes in, he speaks for the first time.

"Isn't it unsanitary for the doctors to be having intercourse in the examination room?"

Dean shushes him, until the half way through the next episode and he says, "I am beginning to question to medical accuracy of this program."

"It's just a show, Cas. It's for entertainment, not education. I promise you, no med student is using _Dr. Sexy_ to study for their exam."

And then there was the worse comment during the second day when Cas said, "Dr. Sexy's boots are highly impractical to perform surgery in."

"Dude," Dean said, giving a friendly shove. "You're just looking for shit to complain about now."

"I'm not," Cas says. "It's only a fact."

"You don't like it, do you?" Which was a bummer, but Dean figures there are worse things that could be going on. So Cas doesn't enjoy his favorite TV show? So Cas has no taste in good television? It was just a show.

"I get enjoyment from your enjoyment."

Dean's words get stuck in his throat, like they so often do around Castiel. The air feels tense around him. Instead of replying, he opts to queue up another episode. Cas doesn't say anything again, but he doesn't leave, just continues to sit there and watch and somehow that's louder.

* * *

He finds a book on angels one day. It was just sitting there in the Men of Letters library. The cover is worn leather and the book smells like asparagus, but that's to be expected consider how old it is. No, like it's super fucking old. Dean estimates that it was probably written back in the 1800s. He can't make out the author's name, but the title is burned into the cover.

 _Angelic Behavior, Rituals, and Habits._

Dean's never seen a book solely on angels. Some of the books Bobby got his hands on had speculation on angels, or the biblical mythology, but never something so…scientific. He opens to a random page, thankful that he's alone.

 _Like humans,_ the book reads in cursive handwriting, _angels are inherently social creatures. Angels communicate through a telepathic link they all share, and if an angel finds himself separated from his brethren he will use this telepathy to still feel a part of the Heavenly Host._

Dean skims over the next couple of parts as it delves into the logistics of angel radio, but his eyes get snagged and pulled back to one specific paragraph that makes his blood run cold.

 _The telepathy is such an integral part of the angel's identity, it makes sense why they will sever the link as disownment. An angel, even one Earth bound, will still possess an angelic identity if they can listen in to what his brothers are saying. However, angels that are removed from the Host, whether it be by accident or on purpose as punishment, go mad. In all likelihood, much like humans, an angel will choose suicide over isolation, or being forced to live barred from heaven._

And then just farther down the page, more words snag Dean's eyes and hold them hostage.

ANGELIC SUICIDE METHODS

 _As aforementioned, angels are nearly invincible, and there are very few methods effective in killing one (_ See chapter 2:2). _But two methods work every time: a fatal wound from an angel blade or holy fire. Every angel has an angel blade, and that is the method most often used. However, according to our source, there have been instances where, an angel with a desire for dramatics, will self-immolate by pouring holy oil over their entire selves and igniting it._

Dean swallows and closes the book. He tucks it under his arm and carries it to his room. He hides in underneath his bed, jams his headphones in, and turns his iPod up as loud as it could go. It's still not enough to drown out his thoughts.

* * *

"I want you to teach me how to use a gun."

Dean chokes on his coffee. He spends the next ten seconds coughing and beating on his chest and the first word out of his mouth once he regains his composure is a harsh " _No."_

Cas squints his eyes and worries his bottom lip. "If we're going to be hunting again, it's imperative I learn how to hunt as a human."

But all Dean can imagine about is a dead body in the back room, blood rushing from the head, gun in hand and Dean just standing there thinking "I'm the one that taught him how to shoot." That would make him responsible, wouldn't it? At least now Dean can hold onto the hope—however short lived or just plain wrong—that Cas can't blow his brains out because he doesn't know how to load and shoot a gun, but it does little to quell the worry in his stomach. There are lots of ways to die, Dean knows. He's seen it enough, experienced it first hand enough.

"Well," Dean smacks his lips, "we're not going to be hunting anytime soon, so it's not really a priority."

"I am not a child, Dean." Oh, great, now Cas is starting to get pissy and that's just one step away from him being sulky. Dean can't deal with Cas when he's sulky. Yeah, maybe that makes him a shit friend, but he's a shit friend anyway. He's reminded of it every time he walks into the library and his eyes are drawn to that one spot on the floor, every time he stares into Cas's eyes that grow duller and duller by the day.

"I didn't say you were." Dean's trying to be patient. He's trying so hard. But Cas has this way of just…pulling at his nerves. They're too alike, Dean supposes. It's like trying to connect two south pole magnets. The closer you get them, the harder they push at each other. "But, the only hunts around deal with angels and demons and I can't force myself to give a shit about either."

He gave up on hunting Abbadon when they found Cas. It meant his grandfather couldn't ever be avenged, but…But Henry Winchester was dead and he wasn't going to get any deader, or any more alive, if Dean axed Abbadon. And he didn't even know of a way to kill a Knight of Hell. And with losing Kevin, and almost losing both Sam and Cas…Dean decided to focus on keeping what little of his family that was alive, alive, instead of pouring all his energy into ghosts and anger.

Cas's eyebrows drew tight together. "You might not care, Dean, but I do. They are still my family and it's my fault they are in this position—"

"No, Cas, you got shanghaied, it's all Metadouche's fault—"

"Do not make excuses for my actions, Dean," Cas snaps in his angel of the lord voice, the one that's deep and gravely, commanding, reeking of authority and something other worldly. Cas isn't an angel anymore, but that's only biological. It's still inside him, his essence, and it still silences Dean now the same way it did all those years ago when they first met and were feeling each other out. "After everything I gave in the name of free will," Cas continues, but his eyes soften subtlety. "Do not belittle my actions, or the consequences that came of them."

Dean doesn't reply. How can he reply to that? He keeps quiet, but he still doesn't believe Cas. He stares at Cas for a moment and thinks of all the mistakes Castiel made over the years. But then Dean thinks of all his mistakes. Cas made a lot mistakes those two years after they re-caged Lucifer, but so did Dean. And Dean made tons more mistakes before that year. He's been making mistakes his entire life. He's still making mistakes and other people are still the ones to suffer the consequences.

Gadreel's telling him that if Cas stays, he goes, and if Gadreel goes, Sam will die. Dean wants Cas here, he wants Cas here so bad, to know he's safe and warm and fed, but…it's _Sam_ and somehow that encompasses everything Dean means and knows.

"Sometimes," Dean says, licking his lips. "Sometimes, Cas…there is no good choice. And sometimes you have to make bad choices to do good things." Because Dean has to remember that if Cas hadn't opened Purgatory, Raphael would've won that Heavenly War. And if Raphael won, then the Apocalypse started back up. Cas getting worn like a prom dress by the Leviathans was just par for the course for Dean's friends and family. "I get what you're saying, but it's not as black and white as you're trying to make it. There are too many shades of gray."

* * *

"Who are you?" the lady snaps. Her name tag says Nora. Dean thinks she must be Cas's boss. She's got that managerial look about her.

"I'm a friend of…Steve's," Dean says, frowning. He almost tripped up and said Cas, but he caught himself just in time. It's important to play along with whatever ruse Cas has going here. It's important to keep Cas safe. There's no way of knowing if there are angels around.

"Steve doesn't have any friends," Nora says. And that hurts. She doesn't say it cruelly or maliciously or with anger. She says it as a fact, like she would say the sky is blue, cats are gross, or Dean Winchester is an asshole.

"I'm an old friend."

Nora's staring at him, gaze piercing. It makes Dean's skin itch.

"I know your kind," she says. "Dated a couple guys like you myself back in the day. So listen to me, bucko. Steve is the sweetest, most hardworking employee I've ever had. If you hurt him, I'll run your dangly bits through the Slurpee machine."

Dean looks at the machine and sees the blade chopping through the blue sludge. He cringes. But he's glad at the same time, because at least somebody is looking out for Cas. Somebody is protecting him. Lord knows Cas can't do it himself.

"I don't want to hurt him," Dean says. It's the closest thing to the truth. Dean doesn't want to hurt Cas, but he probably will anyway because he breaks everything he touches and he gets all his friends killed. Cas knows this better than anybody. So it's good that Cas has someone. Even if it's not Dean.

* * *

The first snow of the year comes earlier than usual. Sam convinces them to go outside and that's how Dean ends up wrapping Cas up in about two layers more than necessary, but better to be safe than sorry, even if Cas does look ridiculous. The poor bastard can't afford to get struck down with pneumonia right now. Cas tugs at his hat, pulling it over his ears and just above his eyes. There's a ghost of the smile lingering in his eyes. Dean tries to draw it out by smiling himself, but it doesn't work. He settles for clearing his throat to stifle the awkwardness.

The snow crunches underneath Dean's boots. Sam's trudging up ahead and Cas is dangling behind him. Dean looks over his shoulder and watches. Cas is staring up at the sky seemingly mesmerized and it brings an ache in Dean's gut that something as simple as snow is enough is captivating to an angel who is literally older than dirt.

Snow's clumping on Castiel's eyelashes. He blinks and it melts down his face in familiar tracks only to be replaced with heavier snow.

Dean's head whips to the side with an audible crack and the right side of his face is freezing. He rubs at his aching cheek and feels the clumps of snow still stuck to his skin. He turns to face Sam who's red in the face and trying to muffle a laugh behind his hand, which might be a bit more intimidating if it weren't covered in pink mittens.

"Oh, it is on, bitch." Dean stoops down and fills both hands with as much snow he can and clumps into a messy ball. Sam rushes away and Dean's snowball hits the ground disappointingly. "Fuck," Dean says as Sam vanishes from sight. He turns behind him and latches onto Cas's hand. "C'mon, Cas, we gotta roast his ass." He runs and is practically dragging Cas behind him.

"Dean, what are we doing?"

"Snowball fight."

"What?"

Dean stops about hundred feet up from the bunker door. He's panting hard, breath visible and icy in front of his face. "You roll the snow into a ball," Dean demonstrates, "and then you throw it at someone." He nails Cas in the stomach, laughing at the confused scowl he gets in response. "Got it? We gotta find Sam and get him back."

"And this is…tradition?"

"Not really for us, no. We usually camped out in the south during the winter, someplace it never snowed. It's a bitch to drive in. But hey, now that we got a garage full of wicked cars, I don't gotta risk Baby in the snow."

Dean tries smiling again and this time he gets something in return. It's not a lot. It's subtle, and someone who doesn't know Cas as well as Dean does might not even see it, but Dean does. A warmth blossoms in his belly, despite the fact it's below freezing.

It disappears when the back of his head is struck and becomes wet and cold, a shivering stream of water running down the nape of his neck down his back.

Dean shuts his eyes and tries counting to ten, but stops at three because fuck that. He opens his eyes and Cas is trying to hold back a laugh.

"You bastard," he says. He turns around in time to see Sam bolting. Dean chases after him. Sam's taller and naturally has a longer stride, but Dean's just faster. He catches up to Sam and tackles him to the ground. They roll downhill, breaking through snow and the brush. By the time their momentum runs out, Dean has dirt and braches caught in his hair. At least Sam got it worse; his hair looks like an actual rat's nest. Dean tackles Sam again, twists his arm behind his back.

"You gonna scream uncle, little brother?"

"In your dreams, you jerk."

Then Dean's on his back and Sam's trying to drop a loogie on him. Dean shoves his face away. "Dude, gross! What are you, twelve?"

One firm punch to the gut and Dean's out from underneath. And then he finally gets his shot in. He doesn't even bother clumping the snow into a ball, he just grabs a handful and throws it, smacking Sam straight in the face.

"Eat that, bitch!" Dean laughs and then falls backwards. He's exhausted, but it's a good kind of exhausted. Euphoric.

"Dean?" Cas is standing above Dean's hand, head tilted. It looks strange upside down, Dean thinks. "Are you and Sam all right?"

"Better than I've been in a while," Dean admits softly. Things aren't perfect, not by any means. But at least they're not sucking. He looks to his right and his brother is laying next to him, chortling like a monkey and his angel is above him. With the angle of the sunlight and Cas's position, Dean thinks he sees a halo of light igniting from behind his head.

"Snow angels," Sam says.

"What?" Cas says. He sits on his knees.

"Lay on your back," Sam says. Cas does. "Now you move your legs. Spread them out as far as you can and then bring them back in. Do the same thing with your arms. Tuck them close to your sides and then raise them above your head as high as you can."

It sounds really stupid when Dean hears it out loud like that. He makes one too and tries to relish the gravity of the situation. His family is alive and with him and they're having _fun._ No monsters to kill, no Apocalypses to stop. They can just…be, and bathe in each other's company.

When Dean finishes his snow angel, he stands up and helps Sam and Cas to their feet. Sam's snow angel is right next to Dean's and towers over it. The tips of the wings are above the tips of Dean's angels. Cas's, meanwhile, is perpendicular to theirs, like it's flying above them. Dean's back is wet and chilled, but he still has the warmth in his belly and his heart. Sam is laughing too and that just makes Dean laugh.

Cas isn't laughing though.

"Cas?" Dean says. He puts a gentle hand on Cas's shoulder. Cas flinches and shakes him off. "These don't look anything like angels," he says.

Dean and Sam look at each other, and Dean can see in Sam's eyes that they're thinking the same thing.

 _Oh, shit._

Cas had been doing so good. He'd been getting better. And now…

"These don't look _anything_ like angels," Cas says louder, desperation tearing at his throat. He kicks at his angel and stomps on it, crushing it underneath his boots. Snow flies as Cas kicks at it and then he drops back to his knees and tears at the snow with his fingertips, crying and screaming, and mumbling something that isn't even in English, but something archaic and devastated. Next thing Dean knows, Cas has a rock in his hand and is beating the head of the snow angel with it and he sees red pouring out from Cas's fingertips, and he has to act.

"Cas," Dean says. He and Sam act together. Sam grabs Cas from behind and Dean works on getting that damn rock out of his hands. He has to pry Cas's fingers off of it, one by one, and he notices that Cas's fingernails are maimed, cracked and bleeding. The blood runs down his palms and drips onto the snow and it rubs off onto Dean's skin as he works.

"Cas, stop it, stop it," Dean pleads while Sam has to keep readjusting so that Cas won't squirm out from his hold.

The monster is back and Dean doesn't know how to kill it, doesn't know how to stop it. The warmth that was inside him disappears and instead a cold pit forms in his stomach. When he finally gets the rock out of Cas's hands, he throws it as far as he can into the woods and by then Cas has given up fighting and is just sort of slumped over, half into Sam's chest, half onto the ground.

There's a pressure in Dean's eyes and fear in Sam's. Dean swallows.

"C'mon," Dean says. "Let's…let's just get him inside."

Dean's life must be some sort of cosmic joke. Every time things start going right for once, every time he starts to get comfortable and happy, every time—it all goes to shit and things end up shittier than they were at the start.

The trek back to the bunker seems longer than original trek out into the woods. But they get there, Sam piggybacking Cas the way there. Cas is lost in some sort of catatonia. Dean's never seen Cas this defeated.

They get inside and Sam sets Cas down in the library room. Dean gets the first aid kit. Sam disappears somewhere in the bunker, but Dean's thankful. He wets a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol and dabs each finger individually. Cas doesn't even flinch. That worries Dean. He's had his fair share of scrapes and bruises, especially in such sensitive areas. He knows how badly it burns and stings, like it goes straight down into your soul.

But Cas doesn't flinch or make any sort of noise, not even when Dean starts on the opposite hand, not when Dean wraps his hands in bandages.

They're so close now. Dean can feel Cas's breath on his neck. Dean tapes the bandages into place and then rubs Cas's wrist.

"Feeling better?" It's a harsh whisper, but Dean's afraid if he speaks any louder, something's going to shatter.

Cas meets his eyes. "Dean," he says seriously; his tone is the same that it was all those years ago on a park bench in a town that was still standing. "They didn't look anything like angels."

"I know," Dean says. And then, something possesses him. He leans forward and places a soft kiss on Cas's temple. Then he leans back and curls his fingers into a fist. "C'mon. Let's get you to bed."

* * *

Kevin's dead and Crowley is pushing stakes into his brother's brain. Dean doesn't know where Cas is; hasn't seen or heard from him since that bar in Colorado where Dean had to tell him to get lost again.

Turns out, the angel riding Sam isn't even who he said he was. He said he was Ezekiel, and apparently Cas and Ezekiel, if they weren't friends, they at least respected each other. This angel knew Dean would ask Cas's opinion; he purposefully impersonated an angel he knew Cas would vouch for.

Dean lingers in the corners. He can't watch Crowley do his work. It's not Sam, not really; but…it's still Sam. And it's not Dean driving those stakes into his brain and out the other side of his head, but he's sure as hell not stopping Crowley, so that makes him at least partly responsible, right?

He wishes Cas were here with him. Cas would anchor him, distract him from what was going on.

But he doesn't know where Cas is. He doesn't know if Cas is even alive.

He knows Cas can't hear him, but Dean sends a prayer out his way regardless.

 _Keep your head down and lay low. Stay safe. Do whatever you gotta do to stay safe. And call me if you need me. I'll come. If you call, I'll come._

The angel inside Sam starts to howl.

* * *

Sometimes Dean can't assimilate all of what Cas is. He's a warrior that hates fighting, a natural born leader that doesn't want to lead. He has the wisdom of a sage but the naivety of a child. He likes knit caps, long coats and fuzzy socks. He likes nature documentaries and fantasy novels. He doesn't like chocolate or horror movies or Christmas music, but sometimes, when he thinks no one is listening, Dean will catch him humming Medieval hymns. Sometimes he talks to himself in Enochian. He'll translate Dean's telenovelas for Dean, even though Dean knows he hates the melodrama and the confusing plot lines.

(I can accept that Maria wasn't aware she had a twin brother, Dean. I refuse to accept her brother she never met arranged for her to be murdered because he's in love with Maria's brother. That's preposterous)

But then Dean remembers what Cas said back when they were watching _Dr. Sexy MD_.

 _I get enjoyment from your enjoyment._

Dean shuffles closer to Cas.

* * *

After the snow angel incident, Dean knew Cas was close to snapping. The snow angel incident had been bad, but it wasn't as bad as it could've been and Dean knew something worse was just looming around the corner. He was expecting it. But it still came as a surprise when it arrived.

It was two in the morning when he heard the shuffling. This was earlier than when Cas normally ghosted around the bunker and, call it intuition or divine intervention, something in Dean's brain clicked and said: _this is it. This is where he loses it._

Dean gets out of bed, still in just his boxers. Cas was at the end of the hallway. Dean sees his silhouette sitting. He's sitting Indian style, rubbing at the soles of his feet. When Dean gets closer he sees that both are bloody.

"Cas?"

He kneels down and tries to swallow his panic, shush his desire to call for Sam. Cas's eyes are glazed.

"Hello, Dean." There was a distinct slur to his words.

"Are you drunk?" He thinks, in terror, of the Apocalypse that didn't happen, a Cas that hadn't come to be, one human, abandoned by the angels, using drugs and sex and alcohol as coping methods.

But…That Cas had also been abandoned by Dean. Dean was still here. He wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't going to leave Cas like that Robo Dean had. Cas didn't have to turn into that version of himself.

"You…often imbibe in alcohol when your emotions become overwhelming," Cas says. Dean checks the soles of his feet and lets out an anxious sigh when he learns that the wound aren't bleeding anymore, and Dean's debating about stitches or superglue or if it's even bad enough that they're needed.

"Well, I ain't exactly a role model," Dean says, doing his best to ignore the ache in his gut. Cas's feet are sliced, three on each foot, but they're also scarred—this isn't the first time he's done this- and Dean's berating himself because he should've seen this coming, he should've noticed something, or maybe some part of him did notice because he realizes that Cas _always_ wore socks, always. And Dean resolutely ignored it because he didn't how to…

 _Every_ step Cas made would've hurt.

Dean doesn't know how to do this.

"That's not true." Cas is looking at him with his soulful eyes. Dean knows they're engaging what Sam calls "the fucking gross eye sex", but it doesn't feel dirty to Dean, not at all. Cas has seen Dean at his very worst, seen his soul twisted and torn with a blade in his hand and a soul on the rack, eyes starting to get eaten by the black, and Cas still looks at Dean like he hung the stars.

Dean swallows. "Why'd you do this, Cas?"

"Human emotions are so…loud. And quiet, somehow at the same time. It's so quiet in here," Cas taps at his temple and squints. "How do you stand it?"

Right, because Cas used to have angel radio going on in his head 24/7. And then it was just ripped from him. Dean remembers what that book said. He supposes it's like having background music play constantly, never stopping, and it's always there and just becomes a part of you until one day it's not and it's just gone. You would have to re-learn how to listen, how to interact with the world.

"And I never knew that pain," Cas continues, "could be so metaphysical. I am used to pain, Dean, certainly. I have fought in so many wars, ventured down into the deepest realms of Hell. But this pain…it's so overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time, and there is no wound, but it's a constant ache deep inside all the time, except for when there is a wound."

"Okay," Dean licks his lips. Cas is apparently a rambling drunk. "Okay. So…you hurt the outside to stop the pain inside?"

"It doesn't seem to make much sense, no. But it works."

"Cas, buddy—"

"It's okay, Dean," Cas says. "It's the least I deserve, after everything."

Dean can't do this. He needs Sam. He needs Sam _now._

"Cas, just…wait here. Please. I'll be right back, but…"

He stands up and rushes to Sam's door, afraid to be gone for more than two minutes because Cas is creative enough that he could probably find a way to hurt himself worse in that allotted time. He bangs on Sam's door.

"Sammy, get up!"

Dean's ancy, his stomach twisted. Sam unlocks his door thirty seconds later and opens the door. His hair is messy, he looks pissed to be awake, and he has his pistol pointing forward, his trigger finger still resting on the barrel.

"Dean," Sam says stiffly, "what's wrong?"

"It's Cas."

Sam puts his gun down on the bookshelf. "How bad?"

"It's…Sam, it's really bad."

Sam rushes down the hallway and Dean sort of checks out after that. He doesn't mean too, but Sam starts talking about hospitals and the last time Cas was in a hospital, the doctors just threw around regular, normal words Dean's heard his whole life. "Infection" isn't so scary now, because Dean knows, if they take Cas to a hospital, the doctors _will_ take him away. "Infection" will become "facility" and "stitches" will turn into "mentally unsound". They'll look at Dean with pity and accuse him of not being able to take care of his family. They tell him they can take care of him better, but then they'll just lock Cas away, pump him full of pills till he just rots away and dies, and call that better than anything Dean could ever do.

He remembers being thirteen, injured on a hunt, and his dad leering over him, not screaming, but angry and so stern. "Don't you say nothing about vampires, or wendigos, or werewolves, boy," his dad said. "Do you understand? You tell them about that, they'll lock you up. You might not ever see me or Sam again. Do you want that?"

And Dean had been thirteen, hurt and scared, but his dad's words stayed with him throughout his entire life. He understands the importance of what his dad was trying to get through to him; he understands that his dad had to scare him into submission to make sure he was safe, to make sure he wouldn't be taken away. That sometimes you have to do a little bad to ensure good.

John Winchester loved his family in the only way he knew how. To hold onto them like they were your life preserver in the middle of the ocean during a hurricane. And it worked.

Cas is not thirteen and scared, but Dean fears he might have to resort to similar actions. Dean's at least partially self-aware. He knows Cas won't pass a mental health exam. He can't tell a lie to save his life, and while Dean knows that Cas is a fucking military genius, other people still look at him with pity and concern; younger women treat him with an exaggerated kindness that grates on Dean's nerves every time, because they'll talk to Cas like he's a dog and Cas doesn't understand why. He just thinks they're exceptionally kind and responds to it feeding into this horrendous cycle. Men usually steer out of the way, but Dean sees the side eyed glances and awkward tension they hold in their shoulders. Doctors would think the same thing those women and men think and they would use it to tell Dean that he's not capable of taking care of Cas and then they would take him away and Dean would never see Cas again. After defeating destiny and crossing the oceans the angels and demons and God try to put between them, Dean can't let it be doctors that don't know shit be the ones to keep them apart.

"C'mon," Dean says, stepping forward. "Help me get him to bed."

"He needs a hospital," Sam whispers.

"No hospitals!" His voice tears through his throat and it burns and rips; Dean bites down onto his lip to suppress his shuddering sobs. "We can take care of him here better than any hospital can." He has to believe that.

Cas is basically three fourths asleep anyways. He's drunk and suffering from blood loss (never an ideal combination) and sleep deprivation, but his injuries aren't even _that_ bad; not bad enough that they should spend an hour in the car at the asscrack of dawn driving through the middle of bumfuck nowhere to get to the nearest hospital and run the risk of them taking Cas away.

Dean bends down and lifts Cas by his arm. He leans into Dean and murmurs something unintelligible into Dean's shoulder. His skim is warm against Dean's neck.

"Wait," Sam says and he maneuvers Cas into a bridal carry. "He'll reopen those wounds if he starts walking."

"Oh," Dean says. He hadn't even thought about that. He would've hurt Cas just by walking him to his bed.

 _When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost to us!_ A voice from the past echoes.

"Good thinking, Sam."

Sam's a giant, and he towers over Cas normally; but not enough that he can just carrying him effortlessly. Dean helps as much as he can, walking in front of Sam and holding onto Cas's side. Together they bring him back to his bed and lay him on top of the covers.

"I'll get the kit," Sam says awkwardly.

Dean's alone.

Cas murmurs and flips onto his side. Dean can still see the scars peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Dean's memorized their pattern, the way they reach down from his shoulders and crawl to his hips, how the nearby skin is pulled taut. Ironically, the least noticeable scar is the one that crosses the bridge of his nose, only visible in correct lighting.

Cas still hasn't told them the full story of what happened. Dean's been able to piece together most of the pieces just by inference, but he knows nothing for sure. But somehow, after Dean told Cas to scram back in that bar, angels found Cas and they carved into him and Cas somehow got away, because Cas is a resourceful, conniving bastard.

But whenever and however it was that Cas got away, he didn't come to Dean. Dean told him to take a hike, and when Cas got hurt, he didn't call Dean; as far as Cas knew, Dean didn't want anything to do with him. It was the hospital that had called Dean, and that had been days after Cas escaped.

Sam comes back with the first aid kit. Dean can't move. Sam examines Cas's feet carefully first.

"Well, good thing is they won't need stitches," Sam says. "They're not that deep. They should be fine with just basic first aid."

Dean watches as it's Sam this time who nurses Cas's wounds, bathing them in iodine, wrapping them carefully in gauze three times around before slipping socks on. Cas doesn't stir. When Sam finishes he pulls the blanket over Cas's shoulder and then he turns to Dean.

"What are we going to do?"

Sam is asking him as his little brother, that snot nosed terrified eight year old asking when was Dad going to be back, completely dependent on Dean for food; the little boy that would crawl into bed with Dean after a nightmare, that Dean would tell stories too because that was his job, take care of Sam. Sam wasn't a snot nosed eight year old anymore, but he was still Dean's little brother and he looked up to Dean and depended on Dean to take care of him when he didn't know what to do.

But Dean didn't know what to do. And he had no one to go too, because it was Cas he went too when he didn't know what to do, when he needed someone to take care of him for once. Because Cas was a lot like Dad; everything he did he did with the best of intentions, and he did for the safety of Dean and Sam. Even when they were pissed at each other, and fighting, and when the circumstances of the universe tried to pit them against each other, Cas would always help Dean when he really needed it.

But now Cas needed him and Dean didn't know what to do.

Every time Cas needed his help for once, Dean never was able to help him.

"Dean?"

Sam's looking at him expectantly and Dean doesn't know what to do.

"I don't know, Sam."

* * *

Cas gets sick. It's not like the sick when the hospital called him. His wounds had become infected and a fever encased his body in delirium. In a way, that had still been something inhuman because Cas got those wounds fighting.

This…

This is just pitiful.

Dean wonders how Cas managed to catch the flu when he barely leaves the bunker, but it must be that damn Winchester Curse that gets to everyone Dean loves. Sam's terrible helping sick people, and he's a sympathy vomiter, so Dean sticks with Cas through most of it, the midnight trips to the bathroom, restocking the tissue supplies, and making sure his calorie intake is up.

Cas sits in bed and watches the soup slough off the spoon back into bowl. "How are the healing elements contained?" There are dark bags underneath his eyes and friction burns under his nose.

"Lots of sodium," Dean answers, slurping from his own spoon. "Less talking, more eating."

Cas sighs but takes another slow bite. His face scrunches up and Dean figures he must be sick of soup by this point, but it's the only thing they've found to settle his stomach and he can't afford the body mass to just not eat.

Dean thought Sam was petulant when he was sick, but damn does Cas give him a run for his money. Cas either genuinely doesn't get it, or he just doesn't care, but either way, he's adamantly trying to ignore being sick. Dean had to yell at him to bed and almost physically drag him away from the transcription work he's assigned himself and Dean's caught him running laps in the bunker gym on more than one occasion. That lead to a conversation on calorie conservation and sleep deprivation and to where they were now, with Cas basically on bed arrest, questioning the philosophy of tomato soup.

His feet are still bandaged and socked. Sam keeps hissing at Dean to talk to Cas, but Dean doesn't know how; and if it's so important and dire, why can't Sam talk to Cas? Dean asked and Sam just gave Dean a bitch face glare and said, "He'll open up to you if you let him."

Dean breathes in through his nose. It's just like learning to swim, he figures. You just gotta jump in the deep end and get it over with. Sink or swim.

"So," he says. His tongue feels fat in his mouth. "How are you feeling?"

Cas looks at him in surprise.

"I mean…with everything," Dean says. "The whole being human thing and um…the loudness you were talking about."

"Dean," Cas sighs, "you don't have to do this—"

"Yes, I do. I mean…if you're hurting yourself, I want to know. I need to know. And if you're feeling…like you were, back after Purgatory I mean. If you're feeling like that still…Cas, buddy, you have to talk to me."

"But wouldn't that violate your rule, Dean?"

"What rule?"

"Your "no chick flicks moments" rule?"

Dean swallowed another bite, then one more just to avoid talking. "Sometimes rules have to be broken." Cas doesn't look convinced. "Please, buddy?"

"Okay," Cas says. He puts his bowl, still half full, on the nightstand and rests his hands on his knees. "I feel I must be the largest fool of this universe. I feel an emptiness inside that grows deeper each passing day. I feel afraid and hurt, and I am so angry, Dean…so unbelievably angry at so many things…at Father, and Heaven, my siblings, Metatron, _myself_ —" Cas sighs. "Before I met you, I knew the work I did was good, that it was in Father's will. I had no doubt about that. It wasn't until my garrison was given the order to retrieve you that I began to doubt. But that was only a seedling. I still had faith in my work and superiors; they talked to Michael and Michael was one of the few who had seen the face of God—they had to be righteous.

"But Heaven is a sham. A farce. It isn't righteous at all. And I certainly didn't aid that. And every human intricacy—sleeping, eating, defecating, urinating, getting cold and sick- is only a reminder of my failures."

"They don't have to reminder you of the failures," Dean says without thinking. "We've all done bad shit. It doesn't make us bad people." Dean has to convince Cas of this, because if he can convince Cas, maybe he can convince himself of it too. "We've done a lot of good too, you have to remember that. And most of the time you have to do a lot of bad to even more good. I get that eating, shitting, needing to sleep and getting sick has got to suck ass, but maybe it's not a punishment. Maybe it's a reward. We're supposed to be God's favorite right? He likes humans better than anything else He made? Well, now you're human. You've always been better than the rest of those winged dicks anyway."

A shadow of a smile danced on Cas's lips. "I have always been amazed by the triumph of the human spirit. Your ability to rise above your worst circumstances and survive is a trait angels do not usually have. Indeed, humanity should have become extinct several times during the course of history, but yet here you are, still thriving."

"And that's why you gotta thrive too. You're a human now, we aren't that easy to kill."

Cas coughs and then sneezes. Dean remembers a time during a harsh storm; remember stabbing this unknown creature straight through the heart with Ruby's knife. He remembers the creature pulling it out curiously and smiling at him.

"Please, Cas," Dean says. "I need you here."

Cas looks at him that way he has. "Of course, Dean."

Yet, despite everything Dean just said, for one whole, eternal second, inside the breadth of a heartbeat, Dean wishes Cas would just _die._ He's suffering and people put down their beloved pets for less, to gift them an easy, painless death. They love their companions so much, they let them go so they don't have to suffer. Dean wishes that Castiel had died in Purgatory and been spared this agony of being human, the distress of trying with every cell in you being to fix your mistakes and to do good only to fuck things up worse than they were before.

Castiel thinks that not-dying is his punishment, that he's a real life Prometheus, damned to be tortured and killed every night only to be brought back by morning for it to start all over again.

And the fire that Cas gave to humanity, his crime, was the free will Dean wanted so bad. Dean asked Cas for his help knowing what the price to Castiel was and Castiel helped.

And when Cas needed Dean's help….Every time Cas has needed Dean's help…

He wishes for one full second that Cas could get his wish and just die and stop hurting. But it never lasts longer than that one second. Because at his core, Dean's selfish; he shoved a fugitive, psychotic angel down his brother's throat because he couldn't bear to live his life without Sam, even though Sam's death would've reaped good in the world, even though Sam had made peace with his death, Dean hadn't, and he forced Sam to live. And he forced Cas too, when that reaper bitch gutted him and Gadreel healed him back to life.

He's forcing Cas now, guilt tripping him into staying alive. Dean needs people, but he only gets them killed.

"Dean?" Cas says. He picks up his bowl and gets back to eating, even though Dean knows it's gone cold by now.

"Yeah?"

"Am I still your friend?"

"You're my best friend," Dean says.

"Oh," Cas says. He blinks. "You need better friends, then."

It's an echo of what Dean told Cas once.

"Maybe," Dean says. He licks his lips. This shouldn't be so hard. It's just talking. He's been talking since he was two years old. "Maybe we both can work at being better friends…with each other."

"I'd like that," Cas says. "I miss you. Every time I'm away. I missed you so much in Purgatory. Hearing your prayers every night was agony; I wanted to go to you and take away your misery. But I couldn't. I had to stay away to protect you."

"I know," Dean says. "I understand that now. And I miss you too. I'm sorry I kicked you out."

"You had to," Cas says. "To protect Sam. Dean, I forgive you."

"I know," Dean says, frustrated at the building pressure behind his eyes. "But I didn't want to kick you out, and I didn't want you to be out all alone like you were. I wanted you here, and you wanted to be here and it looked like finally maybe…" Dean stops, unsure of what he was going to say. Maybe we could be together?

"I'm here now, Dean. I'm not going anyway."

"Good." Dean reaches forward and takes the bowl away from Cas. The fever is still warming the air around Cas. "C'mon, I'll make a fresh pot."

* * *

"I want to do Christmas this year," Dean says.

Sam looks away from his laptop and side eyes Dean. "Okay," he says. "Yeah, that sounds nice actually. Can I ask why?"

"I want to give Cas something nice….Show him one of the many of thousands of good things about being human." Because when Dean listed off nice things about being human, Christmas surprisingly came early on, even though Dean had never really even celebrated it. He didn't remember any of his Christmases from before his mom died, and after she died, it didn't get any mention. Dean tried to scrounge something together for Sam, a Charlie Brown tree and some simple gifts, like candy and comic books, courtesy of the five finger discount. But that only lasted a few years. Once Sam got older, they didn't celebrate at all. The only Christmas Dean remembers having in recent years was that one Sam tried to set up before Dean went to Hell, and that had been a disaster.

So maybe it's time for a change. A real Christmas.

"I'm thinking the whole shebang," Dean says. "Tree, decorations, ham dinner, gifts."

"Okay," Sam says. "But Dean, it's the twentieth. How are you going to get all that set up in just the next few days?"

"We can make it work. The tree and ham I can get easy, but I'm worried about the gifts. What do you get an ex-angel for Christmas?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugs. "He likes to read. Almost all the stuff here is from the 1930s. See if you can find a box set of _Harry Potter_ or _Game of Thrones."_

"Right," Dean says. "Yeah, that sounds good." Anything would be a nice change to the kind of stuff Cas has been reading. What is it with all these Russian authors writing about suicide and pedophilia? "What do you want?"

"I should be asking you, Dean. You do so much for us. What is it you want for Christmas?"

Sam is here, talking to him, alive. Cas is alive and is slowly starting to open up. He's finally done dealing with black eyed bitches and dicks with wings. The bunker is a stable, safe home, with his own room and a comfy mattress that remembers him. "I have everything I've ever wanted."

"You sure?" Sam asks, with that tone of his voice. It's a bitch face without the face. "There isn't anything you want? Maybe you want to expand on something you already have?

"What are you getting at, Sam?"

"I'm just saying," Sam shrugs, "if there's anything you want, whatever it is…I'm your brother and I want you to be happy."

Twenty feet down the hall, Cas is sleeping off the last of his fever. Twenty feet between him and this…force that has been between the two of them. He can break it. They made progress last night, but there's still this space between them. Dean can break it. He can reach across and get what he wants, what Sam is edging him into. If Cas wants it too, at least; but Dean thinks he does. Because the way Cas is with him when they're alone, just the two of them, is different than any other variant Cas Dean has seen. Even when he's with Sam, Cas doesn't act the same as he does when he's alone with Dean.

So if they both want it…why won't they let themselves have it?

"C'mon," Dean says. "Wanna help me pick out a tree?"

"Wait," Sam says. "We're getting a real tree?"

"It ain't Christmas without a real tree, is it?"

* * *

Dean looks it up later. Turns out there's a word for what he and Cas have: mamihlapinatapai . He tries pronouncing it twice before giving up and reads the definition over and over.

 _A look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin._

Well, at least just calling it fucking gross eye sex was easier to say, Dean would give Sam that.

* * *

They took one of the large SUVs hidden deep in the bunker's garage to load their tree home. It was a modest tree, only about six feet tall. Sam still towers over it when he's standing straight, but for being so close to Christmas as it is, it's a nice tree, with full bristles and smells of pine. They carry it down the stairs and decide to set it up in that little foyer by the entrance.

Cas shuffles in shortly after. Dean assumes they woke him with all the noise they were making, and he feels partly guilty; but he's also glad that Cas is awake because Dean wants him to participate in decorating.

Cas does his signature curious, squinty glare. "Why is there a tree inside?"

"Surprise!" Dean and Sam says at the same time.

"It's a Christmas tree," Dean says. "We're doing Christmas this year."

"Oh," Cas says. "And it is customary to bring a tree inside?"

"Yeah. We decorate it and put all the presents underneath until Christmas day. Or eve."

"Why?"

"Because that's how it done."

"But _why?_ "

Dean throws his hands up in the air. "I don't know! It's just how humans do Christmas, okay? Please just go with it. Please?"

Cas's eyes the tree from top to bottom, and then his eyes travel to Dean and Sam.

"I think I understand," he says. "It's symbolic to bring the tree inside. You're saving it from the harsh winter weathers and giving it a second chance at life. Even if it's only for an extra few days, it gets to live longer than it would have. It's the triumph of human spirit."

"Sure," Dean says, swallowing. "Uh, I'll get the decorations. Be right back."

Dean rushes back to the garage and gets the box of red ornaments, blue snowflakes, rainbow lights. In a separate box is a special item and Dean knows it's going to go either one of two ways, and he hopes they don't have a repeat incident of the snow angel day.

He carries both boxes back to the foyer and sets them down. He begins by unwinding the lights and gives the starting end to Sam. He and Sam wind the lights tightly down the tree and when they finish, Dean has Cas start to put on the ornaments.

"Where am I supposed to put them?"

"You just hang them on the tree. It's not rocket science."

"Actually, Dean," Sam says, "There are Christmas tree decorating competitions and guidelines on how to win—"

"Oh my god," Dean moans, "you fucking nerd. Look, just put the heavy stuff on the bottom and put the rest wherever the hell you think it looks nice."

Cas decorates the tree with the same meticulousness he tackles everything. His fingers curl around the hooks and he unfurls the individual branches with a tenderness, unwillingly to hurt the tree. Dean considers telling Cas not to bother; the tree is going to die in a few days anyway, but it seems pointless.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe there is an art to decorating Christmas trees. Cas is fixated on creating perfect symmetry between the two sides, obsessed with making sure the spacing is even. He kind of takes over the project, barely speaking. Cas has always done that, Dean supposes; gotten lost in his work, taken on every project like it was his life's work.

Dean isn't sure when it happens, but eventually, he and Sam step back and let Cas finish by himself. Dean wonders how many Christmases Cas actually seen. Was he there when Jesus was born? Did Cas know Jesus, or his parents? Did Cas watch as the holiday evolved?

Cas reaches up on his tip toes to put the last ornaments on the top tier, and there's still the special item in the separate box. Dean still feels conflicted. He thinks he's prepared to deal with another meltdown, but playing out a scenario in his mind and dealing with the actually reality of it are two different things.

He nudges Sam. "What do you think?" He asks.

"Did you talk to him?" Sam asks, a sarcastic curl on the tip of his tongue.

"Yes, Mom," Dean hisses.

"And how did it go?"

Dean loses the tension in his shoulders. "It went okay."

"Then I think he can deal with it," Sam says.

Dean inhales deeply. He picks up the box and carries it over to Cas. "Hey," Dean says softly, "there's one last ornament to put on." Dean gives the box to Cas. "It goes on the very top."

Cas opens the box and digs through the packing peanuts and bubble wrap. The angel he pulls out is small. Dean had to dig through several different boxes the flea market had to find a male one—why were almost all Christmas angels female anyway, where did that come from?—and it was still wearing a dress, ( _It's a robe, Dean,_ Sam had told him), but it was shorter than the ones on the female ornaments and it had a sword pointed to the sky, white fluffy arched over its head. It has black hair. Dean isn't sure, but he thinks the feathers might actually be real. They were so soft, like silk. Their face had little detail, but it looked like what Dean used to thinks angels would look like, before he actually met one. Granted, after his mom died, he didn't believe in them anymore, but there was still that image his mom had planted in his head, and the statues churches had on their front steps.

But angels weren't like that. Cas wasn't like that. He was…a celestial wavelength of holy intent…or something like that.

Dean's waiting.

"The apparel is wrong," Cas says. "But seeing how very few humans have seen an angel's true form, I suppose that's to be expected."

Dean's breath catches in his chest.

That's it?

Cas turns and reaches as far up as he can. He has to stretch to put the angel on top, but he straightens it out and fluffs up the feathers.

Dean's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Where is the breakdown? The tears? The screaming, the rage?

Cas stares up at the angel on the tree, his neck arched backwards.

Is that it?

"It looks good, Cas," Sam says.

"Thank you, Sam."

"Hey," Sam says, "if you don't mind…can I have a word with Dean alone?"

"Of course."

Cas doesn't have wings anymore, but he still has this uncanny talent to just blip in and out of a room without making any noise.

"Dean," Sam says, "what's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm just surprised. I was expecting a blow out, y'know?"

"I think you're depressed."

Dean's mind comes to a screeching halt. "What?"

"You're depressed. It's okay. You don't have to hide it."

"I-," Dean sputters. Words keep getting caught in his throat and he can't force them out. He coughs and clears his throat. "What are you—I'm not depressed, okay?" He shakes his head. " _Cas_ is depressed, okay?"

"I know," Sam says. "But so are you. I think you guys are feeding into each other's depression, actually."

"No," Dean snaps. "I'm right as rain, Sammy. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then what is all this about?"

"It's about helping Cas."

"It's okay to be depressed. You don't have to be ashamed."

"Just shut up, Sam!" Dean screams. "Just shut up and…and leave me the hell alone!"

Dean storms off and locks himself in his room. He flops face first down on his bed and reaches for his iPod. He blares the music as loud as is comfortable and buries his face in his pillow.

What the hell is Sam talking about? Cas is the one that's depressed. He's the one that got disowned and tortured by his family. He was lonely and confused and Dean had to kick him out penniless and clueless into the human world all by himself. Dean doesn't understand where Sam's coming from. What has Dean got to be depressed about? He's got everything he needs: a home, his family.

He is _not_ depressed.

The next song on his iPod starts playing. It's _Dark Road_ by Annie Lennox. Dean listens through the first playing of the chorus and then he rips his earbuds out and stumbles to his desk and glares at the mirror that hangs on the wall next to it.

And for the first time, he sees something. The glint that's been floating in Cas's eyes since Dean told him "You can't stay here" is there, but it's in his eyes. The shadows are on his face, and the hollowness is in his bones.

Oh, Dean thinks. There is a bit of that monster in him too.

It's a surprising revelation. He sits back on his bed and lays down, staring at the ceiling. Sam noticed before he did. Has Cas noticed? Probably. Cas is always attuned to Dean's feelings. Dean feels stupid. How could he have not noticed that the monster got him too? He plugs his earphones back in and switches to a Taylor Swift playlist, but it doesn't quell the ache in his gut or fill the emptiness in his chest.

* * *

"Is this Dean Winchester?" a female voice asks. Dean groans and rubs at his face. He squints and sees the bedside clock read just after two in the morning. Who the hell is calling him at two in the morning? And how do they know his real name and number?

"Depends on who's asking," he answers.

"I'm calling from Denver Memorial Emergency Room. We have a patient with us and you're listed as his only contact information."

"Mmm," Dean murmurs.

"We have your friend Steve."

That gets Dean awake. The neurons in his brain start firing off, panic, and relief all in one. "Is he okay?"

"He's very sick, and injured. We're doing all we can to help him."

Dean's out of bed and jumping into pants. He presses the phone between his ear and shoulder as he buttons his jeans and gets shoes on.

"I'm on my way," he says. "I'll get there as fast as I can."

He wakes Sam up, screaming that he's found Cas.

Dean spends the entire drive to Denver going ten over the speed limit, despite Sam's yelling at him to slow down and insistence that Cas would be fine, and they would take him home and take care of him.

Dean ignores Sam and thinks about how he's going to greet Cas. The last time they spoke, he told Cas to get lost to save Sam.

Sam's still pissed at him (understandably) and Dean knows Cas has every right to be pissed at him too; but he doesn't think he could stand it if they both were pissed at him at the same time. Kevin's dead, and if both Sam and Cas are pissed at him, how is he supposed to stand it?

* * *

Christmas Eve Dean starts cooking the ham he got. The kitchen is full of different smells. He spent all morning seasoning, trying to get it perfect, and after he puts it in the oven the whole bunker is filled with the smell.

He, Sam and Cas start making cookie while the ham cooks. Dean finds five different recipes he wants to try out. Sam makes only one snide comment about Dean's cholesterol and Cas is always up for trying anything "human", and that makes it a good night.

Okay, so Dean's depressed. It's not the end of the world. He's been self-medicating with cooking and cleaning, and if he gets deep enough into it, he can forget and just focus. He understands now why Cas always has to be doing _something_ , why he has such an obsession with being useful, no matter how mundane the task he assigns himself is.

The little island in the kitchen is a mess, covered in a thick layer of flour and sugar and baking pans. Cas has flour in his hair and Dean's hands smell like vanilla. Sam is somehow staying the most clean out of all the them, but he's smiling too, and it's fun, like their snowball fight before Cas had his meltdown. Dean hopes they can avoid one, but if anyone can find an existential crisis in Christmas cookies, it would be Cas.

Dean rolls out the dough and has Cas cut out the shapes. Dean got a bunch of different cutters, with stars and trees and candy cane shapes. Sam sprinkles them and then they wait for the ham to finish cooking so they can put the cookies in.

And Dean feels so…weird. Because in this moment, he doesn't feel depressed. There's a warmth in his gut, watching Sam and Cas smile. Cas looks just ridiculous with all that flour still in his hair, Dean can't take it and he reaches over the island to brush it out.

Sam side eyes him, but doesn't say anything. He just…gives Dean a small smile.

Dean looks away then, but the time on the oven goes off just then.

Dinner is…exquisite, Dean would say. Ham, mashed potatoes, green beans and sweet roles. He can't remember the last time he had a dinner like this.

"You know," Cas says, "Christ was not born in December, but I think it's fitting that humans chose to celebrate it during this time."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean says around a mouthful of food. Sam slaps him on his arm.

"Manners, you jerk."

"Bite me," Dean says and he sticks out his tongue still full of food.

"Yes," Cas continues. "It's symbolic. The Pagans had a holiday they celebrated at this time of the year. It was meant to be a cleansing ritual, a way to start the new year off with—what is it you say?—a clean plate?"

"Clean slate," Sam corrects.

Cas squints. "Your idioms never seem to make any sense. I don't know how anyone is expected to understand them." He sighs. "Now, moving the celebration of Christ's birth to this time was meant to convert the Pagans, and indeed, many of their traditions have merged with the Christian ones you celebrate today. But Christ preached that anyone was worthy of redemption, no matter what lay in their past. So celebrating his birth at the end of year is like making a promise…to be a better person in the next year, and move on from the mistakes of your past."

Cas is looking at Dean when he says that last part. And they're doing that thing again, where they can have a conversation with just their eyes. There are so many emotions swirling around in Cas's eyes; there's still a glint of the monster in them, but's more subdued than it was months ago. There's a glint of hope in them too.

After dinner, there's hot chocolate and cookies. Dean doesn't think he's ever felt this full in his entire life, and there is still so much food still left. They're going to be eating leftovers for days.

"Cas," Sam says, "you should tell us the Christmas story. The real one."

They settle into the sitting room. Dean starts a fire and sits with his back against it.

"That's one story your Bible actually gets rather accurate," Cas says. "There were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified."

Dean remembers, before he knew what Cas was, that same terror. He just shot a full magazine into this creature's chest and it didn't bleed. He stabbed it through the heart and it didn't even hurt.

"But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David, a savior has been born to you." Cas pauses. "Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests."

"Were you there?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. "No. Or, I don't know. Naomi said she erased many of my memories. I guess I should say I don't remember if I was there or not. The angel who spoke, his name has been lost to our history. I can't imagine why they would make us forget his name, but he must have done something to anger heaven."

Dean doesn't like talking about Naomi. Dean knew angels were something else, but Naomi was way out there, total bitch; and he only knows the surface of what she did to Cas after busting him out of Purgatory. Cas refuses to give Dean the grisly details, and maybe in a way, Cas is protecting Dean.

But Cas knows _everything_ about Dean. Cas knows what Dean did in Hell, but Cas also knows what was done to him. Not even Sam knows everything that happened to Dean in Hell, but Cas does. Dean, petulantly, doesn't think it's fair that Cas can know so much about him, but Dean knows so little about Cas.

It's not worth being angry.

Dean sighs.

It wasn't Cas's fault he knew. It was just the circumstances. Dean doesn't ever talk about Hell. He understands why Cas won't talk to him about Heaven's torture.

"I think we should do presents now," Dean says. He stands and goes back to foyer and gathers all the presents. Somehow, they ended up with more than Dean thought they can scrounge together in just a few days. He's surprised when he sees a gift, neatly wrapped, marked for him from Castiel. He hadn't been expecting anything from Cas, and he was okay with that. This was supposed to be about Castiel, not him, and he's happy that Cas is alive and safe—he would take that over anything else.

But it's still nice to be thought about.

He sorts out the presents and smirks. "When'd you go out to get presents, Cas?"

"Sam taught me how to use the Amazon to shop."

They all had fake credit cards. Dean could never make himself feel that bad about it, though. The work they did, the danger they put themselves in on a daily basis, was thankless and didn't pay a dime. None of them had spent actual real money, but Dean was okay with that. He was happy just to know that he'd been remembered and thought of.

"Age before beauty," Dean says, "so Sam can go first."

Sam flips him off, but opens up the two gifts from Dean and Cas. Dean got Sam one of those fancy, super durable laptop cases that claimed it would protect the computer from a ten story drop. In a strange twist of events, Cas ended up getting Sam the boxset of _Harry Potter_ books.

"We can share them," Sam says, but he's giddy like a school boy.

"Cas, you should go next," Dean says.

"But you said—"

"Just go. Please."

Dean debated about his gift for Cas for a while. What did you get an ex-angel for Christmas? One that had suffered as much as Cas? Dean hoped he wasn't going to regret his decision in the weeks to come. Cas opened Sam's gift of the _Game of Thrones_ books. He was very excited.

Dean's gift came in just a red envelope. Cas opens it and reads through the level with the same level of scrutiny he tackles everything.

Dean leans forward, anxious. When Cas finishes, he looks up at Dean with surprise. "We're getting a cat?"

"You get to pick a cat," Dean says. "We can't go in till day after tomorrow, but I think this place is missing a fluffy little bastard—"

Cas is hugging Dean, then, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

"Woah," Dean says. "Okay."

"But Dean, your allergies—"

"I can man up and pop Zyrtec, it's not that big a deal."

"Wait," Sam says, "we're really getting an animal?"

"I know you want a dog, Sam, but I figured a cat we can leave by itself for some time when we get back into hunting, you can't do that with a dog—"

"Dean, we're getting a _pet_ I don't care that it's not a dog!"

Nothing makes Dean happier than seeing his family happy. He's researched about the effect animals had on depression. Apparently animals help relieve emotions like anxiety. Truth be told, Dean's a little exited too. He's never had a pet before.

"Dean, it's your turn now," Cas says.

"Oh, right."

Dean doesn't know what to expect. Sam has a history of getting him gag gifts, and he hopes Sam won't try to embarrass him this time. Dean lets out a sigh of relief when he sees that Sam's gift is a collector's edition of _Dr. Sexy MD_ , complete with commentary and deleted scenes.

"Not that I should be encouraging your hideous taste in television," Sam says.

"Fuck you."

"But," Sam smiles, "it was that or porn and I don't think that's appropriate for Christmas."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says.

Cas's gift, though, surprises Dean. It's a camera.

"Oh," Dean says. "Wow."

He's never really had a camera before. He only has two pictures from his childhood, both taken before his mom died, and he has them kept safe in his nightstand. But he doesn't any many pictures from the years following his mom's death. Dad was too drunk the first year, and after he got his shit (mostly) together, he was always on a hunt. Dean doesn't have any pictures of himself or Sam from before 2005, when he picked Sam up from Stanford for that first infamous hunt, the only that the domino effect that led them to where they are now.

Dean can't recapture those moments. He'll never have pictures of Sam's awkward chubby years, or the rare instances when his dad was sober and smiling.

But he can work on making moments now, immortalizing them. He can work on making a new life.

One with Cas.

Dean smiles so wide his cheeks start to hurt. He opens the box and begins to fiddle with the camera right away. Sam has to help him, and he explains the difference between internal and external memories. He snaps a quick picture of Sam and Cas together. The flash makes Cas flinch and the first picture is blurrier, but Dean can't find it in himself to delete it. He takes another one and this one comes out crystal clear.

Dean's going to treasure it forever. It's a snapshot of a rare moment where they are all alive and happy and _together._

* * *

That night, Dean lies in his bed, and something is different. Cas is pressed against his chest, sleeping soundly. His breathing is steady, and rumbling, like a cat purring in its sleep. But that's not what's different. Okay, it _is_ different, but it's the shroud in Dean's mind.

Dean's not sure how they got here, like this. But he's glad they did. Things aren't perfect, but they're getting better. And they'll keep getting better, if they keep going at it like this. Baby steps. They've been dragging their feet through the ground, digging their heels deep into the earth, and keeping themselves stuck in this strange limbo of wanting but not reaching. Maybe if they let their feet up; maybe if they take that first step, things can get better.

Dean pulls at the curls in the back of Cas's head. He needs a haircut, Dean thinks. Maybe he can do one tomorrow. Snag Sam too, if he can, because that kid's gotten away for too long, and Dean will be damned again if he lets Sam start to walk around looking like a Steven Tyler wannabe. Dean doesn't even like Aerosmith. Then the day after, they'll go to the shelter and get a cat. Dean will spend the rest of his life unable to breath and sneezing every two minutes, but it'll be worth it if the stupid fuzzball makes Cas and Sam happy.

Dean sighs, and it's happy and warm. He can't remember the last time he felt like this. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't have to worry about his family. He knows where they are. He knows they're safe.

"Dean?" Cas says quietly.

"Hey," Dean says. He pulls his hand away. "I thought you were asleep."

Cas hums lightly. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean licks his lips. "I'm…I'm feeling okay."

There's still this grip around his heart, but it's not as tight as it used to be. Maybe there'll be a day when it's not there at all. But for now, he's content. He knows he has a lot to be happy for; he doesn't understand why he isn't, but he knows now that's okay if he's not. His family is supportive, and they'll help him, if he lets them.

"I'll start feeling a lot better if we can…keep doing this," Dean says.

"I think so too."

Cas pauses for a moment. "Plus the cat," he says.

"Dude, the cat is not sleeping with us."

"Why not?"

"Do you _want_ me to die of an allergy attack? The hunting community will never let me live it down if a cat does me in by sleeping on my face."

"There are several different breeds of cats that are hypoallergenic."

"Breed? What you mean breed? Since when do cats have breeds?"

"Since your species began dabbing into the science of eugenics."

"Well, ain't that enlightening."

"I'm particularly fond of the Russian Blue."

"Fine," Dean bites. "But it stays on your side of the bed."

"I have a side now?"

Dean hesitates. "Yeah, the one with the cat."

Dean doesn't need to see Cas's smile; he feels it in the air and the tingle in Cas's skin. It makes him smile.

And the grip on his heart loosens just a little bit more.

Dean thinks he can slay the monster after all. Just a little more time, a little more of this, and the monster can be gone, if he lets it go.

* * *

Dean hates hospitals. They remind him of death. The chair is making his ass sore, and his stomach is hurting with hunger, but he can't move, can't stand.

Cas is sleeping. He looks so small, curled up on his side like that. The flimsy hospital gown hangs off his shoulders. White bandages peek out from the collar, taped over layers of gauze and black stitches. He has a nasal cannula looped around his ears and an IV in his hand.

Dean is anxious for Cas to wake up. He doesn't know what he's going to say. What can he say?

Dean doesn't have long to wait to come up with what he's going to say. Which is probably for the best. Dean's never been good and thinking and planning; he's more of a fake it till you make it kind of guy. Improv's always been more his speed anyway. After waiting by his bedside for five hours, Cas starts to wake up.

Dean leans forward and holds his breath.

Cas opens his eyes slowly. His eyes are unfocused at first and he squints harshly.

"Dean?" His voice is quiet and scratchy. Unsure and timid. It doesn't sound anything like Cas, and Dean has to acknowledge that he's responsible for that; he put that doubt in Castiel's mind.

But he could make it up; even if it took the rest of his life, he would spend every second trying to make it up. To Cas and Sam. He couldn't make it up to Kevin, which is why he had to make it up to Cas and Sam while he still had the chance.

"Hi Cas," Dean swallows.

Cas blinks slowly. "What are you…doing here?"

Dean doesn't have to think and debate about what he's going to say. "I'm here to take you home."


End file.
